


kneelers only have to kneel

by janie_tangerine



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: 5 Times, ADWD spoilers, Alternate Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amnesia, Angst with a Happy Ending, Character Death, Hostage Situations, M/M, Past Abuse, Red Wedding, Smut, meaning that the happy ending is kind of two scenarios on five, or maybe three
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-19
Updated: 2013-06-19
Packaged: 2017-12-15 11:26:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/849012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/janie_tangerine/pseuds/janie_tangerine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>five times Theon Greyjoy didn't kneel for Robb Stark.</p>
            </blockquote>





	kneelers only have to kneel

**Author's Note:**

> Throbb week fic number three! And uhm if anyone's interested in background good just for the A/Ns, this is actually the very first Robb/Theon fic I ever wrote in my life - it was the kind of thing you write to get a handle on the characters and then promptly don't post because you're not sure about it, and I actually did just three sections and a half before I left it there, but then I re-read it and thought it wasn't actually too horrible and so I finished it and here we are. Ygritte, sorry for misusing your quotes for title purposes.
> 
> Also, **warnings** : since this is basically two nice scenarios, one so-so and the other two are depressing as fuck and probably in need of trigger warnings, I'm going to list details here just in case: part one is a pre-canon AU, part two is a implied-ADWD-AU where Robb survived the RW, part three is a RW AU where they both die there, part four is... well, another RW AU where Theon is there but doesn't die and five is pretty safe/fluffland/everyone-is-happy stuff and I'm not going to spoil it. ;)

I.

 

Balon Greyjoy breaks the treaty one year after Ned Stark takes his son hostage.

Theon knows that all the fears he has harbored since the day he left home have come true the second he meets Ned Stark’s eyes as he opens the door of the room he’s currently sharing with Robb and Jon – it’s winter, it’s convenient.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and the first thing Theon thinks is, _so my life was nothing to him?_

But so be it. If he has to die here, alone and without anyone familiar to witness it, at least he’ll try to die with dignity. He wonders if his mother, at least, feels sorry about this. But he won’t ever know, will he?

He stands up, his legs shaking slightly but not enough to prevent him from walking.

“I understand.” His voice is thin, resigned; it sounds like the voice of the one and ten boy he is, not like the voice of the man he’d like to die as, but how else he’s supposed to feel? No one will stand for him, and all the castle knows that he’s a hostage.

“Father? What are you doing?”

Robb’s voice breaks the silence as Theon reaches the door.

“His father broke the treaty. You know what I have to do. I explained you.”

“You can’t!” Robb shouts, sounding more outraged that any seven year old has the right to.

“I must. His father knew what was going to happen if he started his war again. I can’t _not_ do it.”

“But he hasn’t done anything!”

Theon can’t believe his own eyes or ears. Robb sounds genuinely angry on his behalf, and it makes no sense whatsoever. They’re not even close, not as Robb and Jon are, and Robb has known about his status since the first day.

“That’s not about what he hasn’t done, it’s about what his father did.”

“And so you’re killing _him_? He’s shaking all over! You always say that you loathed what happened to the Mad King’s grandchildren and now you’re doing the same?”

Stark winces, Robb is speaking words that no child should even conceive, and Theon realizes that he is trembling like a leaf. He probably looks utterly pathetic and nothing like an ironborn. But as soon as Robb had spoken, he had realized what is awaiting him fully. He’ll have to die in front of northern lords out there in a snowstorm, his neck on a rock that will be as cold as ice, and Ned Stark will probably just cut his head and be done with it. No one will shed a tear, and – now he’s sure that he can’t go to it keeping his face straight.

He tries not to cry, but he can feel his eyelids burning. He bites his tongue instead.

“Robb, I have to do it. The gods know I don’t want to, but it can’t appear as if I threaten someone and then I don’t go through with it.”

That sounds final, but Robb… he doesn’t acquiesce. He’s still standing, staring at his father as if he’s personally offended. Theon is sincerely shocked that he’s so set on fighting his father on his. But he can’t help being glad of that – at least someone is worried about his role in this entire farce. Except that it’s a boy of barely seven, and he doesn’t want to know what does it say about the entire thing.

“Isn’t there another way?” Robb asks, and if it only was as simple as he’s making it sound.

“You can’t ask me to pick an innocent child and kill him in his –” Stark starts saying. And then he bites his tongue.

It takes Theon a second to realize that Robb has… pretty much backed his father into a corner. He would still be killing an innocent child, after all.

For a boy of seven, Robb _is_ clever.

It would almost be funny, to see Ned Stark in a staring contest with his heir. If only his life wasn’t at stake.

Then Lord Stark lets out a breath. “Some children in the village died of a fever yesterday. I think there was one around ten with dark hair and more or less his build. I suppose that with the parents agreeing we could use one of the bodies instead of killing him. But if this is what you want, then you will have to come with me, explain the situation and ask yourself. This could cost me the entire war and you would ask good people to put their child’s head on a spike for a week – at least you should share the responsibility.”

For a second Theon feels lost. There’s no way Robb would go that far for the likes of –

“I will then.”

Jon is the one person in the room who doesn’t gape.

“Robb, are you –”

“Yes. It’s only right that I should, since I asked it of you first.”

Stark looks halfway between surprised and proud. Maybe. But Theon has no time to dwell on that – both he and Robb are gone a minute later. Jon stays behind.

“Don’t feel like you have to be here. I won’t go anywhere. You should go with Robb.” Theon’s own voice is barely audible.

“You don’t look like you want to be alone.”

Theon can’t help feeling horrible. Here is another boy of six who only has received insults from him because of his surname, and now he’s staying because Theon looks like _he doesn’t want to be alone_. Not that Theon doesn’t know that if Robb manages to convince those villagers, then he’ll still have to be dead to the world. If his father broke that treaty knowing that he was condemning him to die… it doesn’t make him better than Jon Snow at all, does it?

“I owe – I owe you an apology,” he blurts. “I’ve only – I’ve only been horrible to you and barely courteous to him. Now if I survive I will owe it to him and you – why would you even –” He can’t find the words, and he feels like he’ll break down and cry any second from now, and then Jon’s hand tentatively touches his shoulder.

“He doesn’t like it when he thinks things are unfair.”

Jon doesn’t take his hand away and Theon doesn’t tell him not to.

Two hours later, a child’s head is mounted in front of the castle.

It isn’t his own.

\--

“We’ll think things through later,” Ned Stark tells him. “For now, don’t leave the castle. Or your room, for that matter – from tomorrow this place will be filled with my bannermen. We can’t risk anyone finding out.”

“Of course.”

“Good.” He gives Theon a curt nod and leaves.

He’s been gone for maybe half an hour when Robb comes in. For a moment he looks older than seven; but when he sees that Theon is still there and his face morphs into pure delight, Theon isn’t sure that he can take this without losing his dignity.

“So you are here after all!” Robb’s voice sounds cheerful, oh so cheerful, and Theon has to muster up courage to ask his own question.

“Can I ask you why you even went through all that trouble?”

Robb shrugs, as if the answer was obvious. “You didn’t do anything wrong. Why should you die because of your father? It’s his problem, not yours. It wasn’t fair.”

He makes it sound so neat, Theon thinks, so easy. Fact is, he does owe Robb his life. And he doesn’t want to sound ungrateful.

“I owe you my life. If –”

“You don’t. It was the right thing. Why should you owe me?”

Robb looks concerned as he walks towards him, and Theon doesn’t realize that he’s crying until a small thumb touches his wet cheek.

“Thank you,” he says, his voice alien to his own ears. He has never sounded so desperate, not even when he left Pyke. “You – I didn’t want to –”

He can’t even find it in himself to finish that sentence, but it’s obvious that Robb understood what he meant.

“No one would want to die. That’s just stupid.” He speaks as if he’s stating the obvious. But it does it with a certain solemnity, and he looks every inch like the lord he’s supposed to become.

That’s when Theon takes his decision.

He forces himself to look at Robb as he tries to tell his useless pride to be silent. It’s saying things his father or his brothers would say. But his brothers are dead and his father – his father just signed his death sentence.

“My father knew he was killing me. Your father would have gone through with it. Or his bannermen would have asked it of him. Please, I can’t let this go.”

Robb looks confused at that. Of course he would. He probably isn’t realizing the entity of what he’s just done.

Boy of seven, right. Probably acting older than his age, but Theon shouldn’t forget that.

Still, it doesn’t matter. He forces himself to take a step forward, dropping clumsily on one knee, his heart beating so loud that he can barely hear his own words.

“You deserve at least my service. Whatever I can do that you might need in the future – please, you have to –”

Two small hands touch his shoulders, stopping them from trembling all over again. He can’t even think clearly as Robb kneels down in front of him as well.

“I don’t need your service. Or anyone’s. I don’t want it.”

“Then what do you want? There is something you can ask of me.”

Robb thinks about it for a second. “Other than stopping to be mean to Jon, no.”

Theon wishes he never even said a cruel word to the other boy. He nods once, but Robb doesn’t look as if he’s done thinking. “About what I want… let’s… just be friends?

He sounds almost hopeful as he asks for it, and gods it’s ridiculous, but as Theon nods he decides that even if Robb isn’t taking half of what he says as seriously as someone ten years older might, he’ll remember all of this. He might never see his home again and he might have to live his life under a false name, but right now he can’t bring himself to care.

 

II

 

He looks upwards, squinting at the sunlight – it’s been so long since he’s seen it, and it’s not going to mean anything good – it never does, and he just wants to go back to his cell and rot away there as he’s been doing since… he can’t even remember anymore. He’s pushed to his knees without any consideration for his bare feet with their missing toes by the same men who dragged him out a short while ago and chained his wrists – as if he could escape. The iron hurts against the newly growing skin on his wrists, but he knows better than to complain. He keeps his head down, looks at the ground, careful not to say anything – he had thought that the games were done, that Ramsay had known that he _understood_ , but maybe it’s not over after all. 

“Is this some kind of joke?” 

The voice comes from someone standing in front of him – Reek can see his dusty boots, but he doesn’t dare look upwards. The voice is familiar, but he can’t quite place it and he’s not going to make the effort.

“We checked,” one of the men says. “We thought it was at first, too, but all the servants swear to it and Roose Bolton confirmed that, too. This is him.”

“Oh gods,” the familiar voice says, sounding more disgusted than else. “Look at me,” it says then after a moment, and it’s not Ramsay for sure, and he shouldn’t, but then again it’s not like he has much choice. He raises his head and does – the man standing in front of him is young, with bright red hair and blue eyes, and a direwolf embossed on his armor, and he looks familiar, too, but Reek can’t place him either. He must be someone he knew _before_ , but he can’t bring himself to think about it or put an effort in recognizing him. It doesn’t matter – if he’s from _before_ , then he hates him.

“Theon?” the man asks, and he shakes his head wildly, closing his eyes automatically.

“No,” he whispers, “no, no, don’t, I’m not, that’s not my name, it’s not.”

“And what – what would that be then?”

“Reek,” he sobs. “It rhymes with weak,” he adds under his breath, and he’d grit his teeth if he could, but it’s not like he can, not when they’re broken when they’re there at all.

He feels the man drop to his knees, too, and he brings a gloved hand on his chin, forcing Reek to turn his head towards him.

Reek opens his eyes again, figuring that he’ll have to, at some point.

“Do – do you remember me?” the man asks, sounding horrified more than anything else, his skin pale under the red of his stubble.

He does feel familiar, Reek knows, but he can’t – everything is a haze, and he doesn’t know this man’s name, and if he puts some effort in it he’ll think about _before_ and he’s learned the hard way that he should not if he wants to keep his own limbs attached to what’s left of his body.

“Do I know you?” he answers, hoping that it doesn’t sound too defiant or that it earns him another punch in the mouth.

Then he looks at his right and –

There’s a head on the ground.

 _Ramsay_ ’s head. And there’s a bloodied sword touching the ground next to the red-haired man, so he must have been the one who cut it. Maybe he took the fort.

Oh.

Then he must be in charge now.

“Your Grace,” one of the men says, “just put him out of his misery. I don’t think he’s going to be much useful, the state he’s in, if he ever was going to.”

Which would be perfectly fine with Reek – he used to long for death, once. He barely remembers that anymore, but he knows that once he used to.

“I don’t –” the man starts, then shakes his head. “I don’t think I can,” he says, sounding on the verge of tears. “This is now – this isn’t – what point am I even proving if I do it now?”

Reek doesn’t really know what to think, but – it seems that this man isn’t too cruel, and maybe he’d be better than – than _he_ had been, and Ramsay isn’t here to punish him anymore for doing something he should not.

As he takes in a deep breath, he doesn’t remember that months ago, in the first weeks of his imprisonment, Theon Greyjoy had wished that he could do the very same thing he’s about to do now. 

“Please,” he whispers. “I know you can’t have use for me. But – if you can have some –” He stops, takes a breath, a faint memory suggesting him the right words. “My name is Reek,” he says, his voice trembling. “Unchain me and I’ll serve you,” he finishes, feeling tears running down his cheeks and not even trying to stop himself.

His vision is so blurry that he can’t see the other man’s eyes widening in disbelief, one hand covering his mouth as he obviously tries to stop himself from vomiting, but it doesn’t matter – he knows what he has to do, it’s no point pushing it, and so he stays on his knees until the chains actually do fall down, and even after, he doesn’t move an inch.

He’s going to kneel until told otherwise.

 

III

 

He’s pushed to his knees, a sword on his throat, someone’s hand grabbing his hair so tight it hurts (a Frey, obviously – Ryman, he thinks. Fuck him if he can remember any name right now). He’s only too glad that he killed four people before they managed to take him.

Robb is standing in front of him. He looks wrecked, his wrists chained, someone else’s blood covering all of his clothes, another two of Walder Frey’s nephews forcing him to stand up and keep his eyes open. And his eyes are red from crying.

“I’ll give it to you,” the person holding him down says, “your little turncloak here fought well. Such a pity that he has to go, but then again you’ll follow soon enough. It’s just fitting that he’s the last, isn’t it?”

Theon winces at the wording. He had known that after turning his back on his family he’d have died with people whispering _turncloak_ behind his back, but this is downright humiliating. Robb looks like someone who’s about to go mad in an instant, and who’s to blame him? They slew half of his bannermen and followers in front of his eyes, his mother included. It’s a miracle he’s not gone insane completely yet.

“Please,” Robb whispers with the voice of someone who knows that it’s useless. “He shouldn’t even be here. Let him go home. He was only in this because of me.”

One of the two people holding him up starts laughing. “Do you even think it’s worth trying?”

“Robb, don’t – I chose this. I don’t regret it,” he says, the blade scraping along his neck. “Let them kill me like the traitors they know they are.”

A murmur of _hear who’s talking_ fills the hall, but it’s not what will make him bend his head and die without a last word.

“What are you whispering? I’m a turncloak for my people, but I’ve never killed any guest of mine. I’m right where I should be.”

“You know you never were just –” Robb starts, but some Frey bannerman standing near punches him across the mouth so hard that Robb spits a couple of teeth after.

Theon thinks that they should have run and thrown themselves out of a window. A worthier death than this.

“Now and always,” he shouts as the sword moves from his throat to his back.

Stabbed in the back.

Of course that was how they’d kill him.

The blade cuts straight to his side, blood filling his mouth instantly.

The last thing he sees is Robb, screaming _no_ as tears stream down his face. It’s just too bad, he figures, that he’s headed straight for one of the seven hells and Robb isn’t.

 

IV.

 

He’s taken prisoner just because of his name. Roose Bolton never was stupid and he had figured that having the heir to the Iron Islands, former hostage as he was, would still be good enough leverage. Theon had figured that he’d be killed the second they realized that no one cares about ransoming him, or paying to have him dead.

He had figured wrong, since when no answer comes, he’s given to Bolton’s bastard.

It’s been four months and he’s running from the Dreadfort – he’s not far enough, and it’s not even the first time. The first time a serving girl had opened the door, and told him to run, and when he was sure he had made it, Ramsay’s dogs had almost eaten him alive on the spot.

He curses, his missing toes making it hard to run. He’s sure that he won’t be able to make it –not when he hears growling – but then when he sees the first bitch coming for him, an arrow appears from nowhere and kills her.

Another kills the second.

Theon falls down on the ground, his feet hurting too much, and that’s when four men come out of the woods. One is dressed like a red priest, the others look like commoners, but they’re decently armed.

The brotherhood without banners, Theon thinks. He’s heard something about them, though not much, but – why would they be this far North? Last he heard, they were in the Riverlands.

And he’s surprised when the priest helps him up.

“What’s your name?” he asks.

“Ree – Theon. Theon Greyjoy”

He bites his tongue, shuddering all over. Ramsay wanted him to use that name, not his, and he hates himself for having slipped into it without realizing.

All of a sudden he hopes that they’re taking him somewhere else – he can’t go back.

“Good. Our lord has been searching for you.”

“Your… lord?”

“Come with us. And quickly, before someone else finds out about the dogs.”

Theon doesn’t think twice about it.

His missing fingers hurt.

\--

“Here,” the priest says, and indeed there’s someone else standing in the trees.

Someone with auburn hair.

Theon holds his breath as the man turns his face towards them, slow.

And –

His throat is slit, a bright red scar holding it up together; some of his fingers are bent wrong, his left cheek was slashed with a dagger and his skin is paler than any man’s should be – Theon remembers seeing him die in front of his eyes.

“… Robb?” he whispers, moving closer. He falls down to his knees, his broken toes hurting, looking into a seemingly impassive face.

But then it isn’t as impassive anymore; it becomes a mixture of rage, sadness and compassion, and not quite right. Then Robb raises his hand and his crooked fingers run once, twice, through Theon’s hair, too long and not as dark as it used to be. The gesture is so gentle that Theon almost cries.

“Who did this?” Robb asks. His voice is barely more than a rasp. Theon should lie and say nothing – you just _don’t_ do this, and if Ramsay knew –

“Ramsay Snow,” he whispers, inching just a bit closer. And then that hand with fingers bent wrong covers his cheek in a careful motion, one that you wouldn’t expect from – from a living corpse, because how else could he put it? Theon tentatively covers it with his maimed one, and gods Robb, doesn’t move his own away. He rises up on shaky legs, reaching out to cover Robb’s cheek with his whole hand. He feels warm. Theon should be either worrying or running right now. This isn’t natural. Robb should be _dead_. But his eyes haven’t changed, and they’re both here. Does it really matter?

“Now and always?” Robb rasps. The words are barely distinguishable, but enough to get the point across.

“Now and always,” he answers. Whatever happened – whoever did this – it’s still Robb. Theon doesn’t think that he can bring himself to care about anything else.

\--

A week later, Ramsay Bolton is hanging from one of the trees in the woods near the Dreadfort along with his entire escort.

Theon stands next to Robb, his mouth closed but the weight on his shoulders feeling lighter than before. “Thank you,” he whispers.

Robb gives him a barely there nod. He doesn’t speak, but then again he only does it if it’s strictly necessary.

Theon remembers enough, now, of the whispers at the Twins first and the Dreadfort later. It’s said that the brotherhood without banners is led by an abomination, and sometimes Theon has to wonder how much of Robb Stark is still here and how much is gone. (At the first hanging he had witnessed, he has been almost sure that the answer was nothing.) But then there are moments when Robb looks at him as if they were still kids throwing snow at each other in Winterfell’s godswood, and those times, if only it wasn’t for his neck and the paleness of his skin, you wouldn’t even know that he’s what he is now.

And dead or not, Robb is still the one person that doesn’t make him feel out of place. His maimed hand isn’t shaking when he wraps his fingers around Robb’s wrist, or when he grabs Robb’s badly bent fingers and brings it up, kissing ill-shaped knuckles.

Robb’s smile is as sweet as it used to be when he was alive. And as sweet as the one Theon had been hoping to get when he killed that wildling holding Bran hostage.

There’s nothing natural about this.

Theon doesn’t give a damn.

 

V

 

He should hate himself, he thinks as he slides down to the floor, his hands on Robb’s knees. His family would be even more horrified at him than they already are if they saw him leaning down, nibbling at the inside of Robb’s thighs.

He should feel humiliated, on his knees in front of his jailer’s son, but as his tongue runs once over Robb’s dick and Robb whispers his name, all breathy, his voice hitching, he can’t bring himself to. He has enough women and enough whores, but none of them ever said his name like that.

None of them ever grabbed his hair slowly, without pulling. He’s usually the one who pulls, but Robb is the one person in the world for which he has ever been able to get on his knees. Gods know he shouldn’t be doing this, but there’s no way around it – he wants to.

That’s what does him in every blasted time.

It’s a weakness, he knows. His own family never had a soft spot for him, his mother the only exception, and he thinks that he shares that feeling in return. Everyone in Winterfell shares it, too, but it’s not as if he ever bothered to make himself likeable after realizing that the best reaction he could hope for was cold courtesy.

If only Robb wasn’t the exception. If only he hadn’t always been friendly rather than courteous. If only he hadn’t told him straight most times that he perfectly knew what Theon was there for. If only he hadn’t been the one person Theon could never be purposefully mean to, even if he had wanted it sometimes.

If only Robb hadn’t started it in his own tent after the Whispering Wood.

If only Theon wasn’t so disgustingly weak, and if only Robb wasn’t physically incapable of faking something or of taking advantage of anyone.

If only the noises coming from Robb’s mouth when Theon has his cock in his mouth didn’t make Theon harder than any whore ever has.

He takes his time, running his tongue along the head, feeling it harden in his mouth with every swirl. Robb’s fingers are tightening in his hair, but not enough to hurt. And he is obviously keeping himself from thrusting forward – as if he doesn’t know that he can do it, Theon won’t be the one to complain. He takes it in deeper while Robb isn’t still completely hard, as much as he can without choking on it, and he moans around it when Robb start thrusting shallowly into his mouth, feeling every moment of it as his jaw stretches as wide as it gets. He sucks dutifully, bobbing his head slowly upwards and downwards, and he relishes the feeling when Robb’s fingers move from his hair to his cheeks and start cradling his face. He lets Robb thrust and fuck his mouth as he wishes, they’ve done this enough times that he knows how far he can go, and then he has to reach downwards with one of his hands and wrap it around his own cock. Right now he’s sure he has no patience to wait long enough for Robb to finish him off, anyway, and his stupid white breeches are feeling too constraining for him to ignore it further.

It doesn’t last much longer – he comes against his own fingers after a couple of strokes and then Robb moans his name out loud and moves back slightly before he shudders and comes into Theon’s mouth, and Theon doesn’t even try to move back – he swallows as much as he can, and when he can’t anymore he moves back and strokes Robb to completion. He doesn’t spit on the ground what else he could – if they had been anywhere else it wouldn’t have been an issue, but doing it here would be a pretty damn bad idea.

“You know,” Robb says a while later, when he’s laying down on the bed and Theon isn’t kneeling in front of him anymore but sitting up on the mattress instead, “you could stay. I don’t think anyone will be suspicious.”

“Stark, you want to make it even more obvious than it already is? Also, next time can’t you just avoid biting me where people can see it?”

“As if there’s someone who thinks that you’re taking the chastity part of that oath seriously.”

“Point taken,” Theon has to concede. He lies down on the bed again, eyeing the crown set on the table at the other corner of the room. Once he thought that he’d wear one, too, but he doesn’t regret where he ended up. It had been hard to give it up, and bitter to swallow his own actions, but it meant Asha’s alliance after their father died falling off a bridge. Also, him not being in her way to her precious throne made them somewhat more civil to each other, and if at least two people in his family don’t think horrible things of him right now, he’ll take it.

After all, what was supposed to be home ended up not being his place, and he had understood it in a day.

“So,” he says, inching closer to Robb, “is the ruler of the seven kingdoms satisfied with my service?”

“If you mean _this_ , of course. If you mean the rest… I’ll admit it. White looks good on you.”

Theon snorts, knowing perfectly that Robb is one of the maybe three people who actually believes that. Then again Robb also finds it so very amusing that out of the two people he considers brothers even if in one case they aren’t related by blood and in the other they have a different name, one swore to wear black and one to wear white. But that’s how Robb is.

All things considered, he did say now and always. There was no other way.

“Good to know that His Grace appreciates it.”

“Stop it. I already find it fucking tiresome from anyone else, the last thing I need is for you to start speaking properly.”

“Do you think I can’t be proper?”

“Being proper never was _you_. And I never cared for it.”

If only Robb wasn’t this _good_. If only Theon was made of iron as he liked to think.

If only Robb wasn’t so warm and if only Theon didn’t feel coldness everywhere but with him.

“I’m not doing it for your sake, Stark. Property is just so _boring_.”

“Good thing that I have you to prevent me from being swallowed in it,” Robb replies before shutting him up with his mouth.

His father is probably horrified as he watches them from whichever of the seven hells he ended up in. Of course he would be. Not only he isn’t on a throne, but he’s wearing white rather than black and gold, he’s living in the south and probably always will, he’s swore service to Robb until he lives, and he has bent his knee to him more times than he could count.

But this is where he feels wanted, and he can’t bring himself to regret any of it.


End file.
